


Gold

by inb4invert



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Crying During Sex, Don't copy to another site, First Time, M/M, Obsession, Porn, Rimming, Smitten Original Percival Graves, Teacher-Student Relationship, credence is intense, mention of watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inb4invert/pseuds/inb4invert
Summary: By this point in his life, he'd watched The Tape so many times the tracking had begun to warp and warble, rainbow streaks of static sliding across the screen like pulled taffy.





	Gold

**Author's Note:**

> An irl friend told me he suspects his teacher is the same man he's seen in a porn.  
> I mentioned it to the usual gang and this challenge was born: Credence is the student who knows that his professor was in a porn. Credence tops. 
> 
> I feel like it might be interesting to some readers for me to note that I'm on the autism spectrum and I've realized lately how much my tendency towards intensity and hyper-focus seems to come through in my stories and characters. If it suits you to do so, please by all means read this Credence as also being on the spectrum, although it's neither canon nor necessary to enjoyment of the story.

~~~

Credence could almost measure his adolescence in viewings of The Tape.

He'd found it years ago, a battered old VHS, scuffed and dusted with wet coffee grounds, nestled halfway down inside the dumpster out back of the church.  
His ma never knew about the dumpster diving.

His ma, praise His Holiness, had never known about a _lot_ of things.

He'd known it was a porno at first sight, somehow… almost on instinct. Maybe its placement in the dumpster itself (a beckoning, _sinful_ jewel glittering up from the bed of filth) had been his first indication, but either way, he'd just _known_.

Remembering it, he could still feel the way his heart had pounded, seeing it there: beating so hard his thin t-shirt had vibrated over his sternum, palms sweaty enough to need wiping against his jeans before he could reach down and grasp the plastic case. Hammering up into his throat and pushing all the sound from his ears until there was nothing but white noise.

A lot like it’s doing right now.

 

~~~

 

After he'd found the cassette, Credence had waited at least a week before getting the chance to view it.

There'd been a VHS player in the living room, kept mainly for Christian study tapes that his ma had carefully selected. There was no cable, just the player alone: outside media was punishable as one of the worst offenses, no matter how seemingly innocent. At the time, Credence had imagined what he was doing might merit immediate death if he were to be caught, the crime of _pornography_ so far beyond his ma's worst fears it couldn't be conceived.

His hands had been shaking, kneeling there in the dark before the television like some awestruck penitent, sliding the cassette slowly into the machine with a soft _cha-chunk_ , ready to grease up its gears with its decadence.

Credence had pressed play, thus entering irretrievably into a forbidden, secret knowledge--a modern day Eve hungry and reckless for the taste of corrupted fruit. He'd let out a shaky exhale he'd only vaguely been aware of holding onto when a room filled the screen, bathing him in its eerie light.

The setting was at once seedy in its stripped down essentials, and somehow crushingly familiar. A warehouse room of some generic kind, bare wooden boards and a bit of silver piping--offensively plain and so much like the stale church houses Credence had grown up in, he felt it like a weight in his chest. He could smell its very air, licking his lips in an anticipatory thrill to think of doing something so illicit in a place like that. A place like a _church_.  
Up against a far wall, a strange wooden “X” he would one day learn was called a _Saint Andrew's Cross_ lent its weight to the ecclesiastic feel, biblical in its imposition, its joint promise of punishment and redemption.

A title card declaring this a River Gold Production had made its way across the screen, and then a pair of men had entered the room.

If Credence had been frightened of discovery before then, that unease had quickly mounted into something like terror when he'd realised exactly what kind of porno this was going to be. _That_ kind.

To the bass-heavy hum of an electronic tune, the two men had begun to kiss--no preamble, no conversation--just a desperate, panting mutual devourment. Hastily turning the volume as low as he could without losing the soft little hums and moans, Credence had been caught riveted, instantly entranced and agonizingly hard.  
He had imagined this: men touching one another this way countless, endless, guilty times--but he'd never come close to witnessing it. The sight had moved him as though he'd been transported straight into the room with them.

And how fervently he’d wished he really had.

One of the pair, clearly intended as the “man” of the interaction, stood tall and rugged, his sharp-faced features handsome in a perfect portrait of working class masculinity. But the other, oh, the other…

Dark eyes, warm and soulful, had gazed back in open lust beneath heavy, troubled brows. He was the smaller and younger of the two, scruffy in a way that begged nurturing--a lost stray eager for a kind hand. The leather jacket framing his naked torso had seemed to suggest a youthful delinquency--a heavy handed costume effect instantly belied by his palpable tenderness.

Credence had craved men before, all his life it seemed, but never had the sight of one struck him with a wanting almost painful in its need. His open mouth had run quickly dry--arousal ramping up into something panicky and sharp--seeing the boy casually bring himself to hardness with slow overhand strokes above the waistband of his briefs.

From there, the images on The Tape had rapidly escalated, each sequence more graphic, more desperate and intense--as though Credence were viewing the steady unraveling of fragile civility itself--human decency spooling out onto the floor to leave behind something stark and base. The animal truth of life finally unclothed for him to see.

Acts of debauchery, frightening in their power to make Credence simply _feel_ , were exacted upon that boy (his body bent double in the single creaking office chair, every orifice rudely plundered--streaks of semen painted across his gasping face later to be washed away by a stream of hot piss) things Credence had never even heard of, too obscene to contemplate, and yet. Each one served only to enhance the boy's desirability in lewd counterpoint to his unbreakable perfection.

Credence knew what it was to take what was given in mute submission, to surrender oneself to the capricious whims of a higher authority. Watching that beautiful boy being put through his paces with such sublime acceptance, Credence had been with him then--truly as if he were there in the room, holding his hand and soothing his worrying frown. He'd known then, wordlessly, what kind of lover he wanted to be, how he'd kiss and caress and _worship_ the black haired angel on the screen. That night, in the hush of the small hours, washed in flickering light and palming himself through the press of his jeans on the living room floor, Credence had come as close to love as he'd ever imagined he could.

The Tape became nearly holy to Credence after that. And Credence himself? Irrevocably changed, in ways the Bible hadn't and never could hope to achieve. With the press of a button, it was all too late for that. Perhaps it always had been.

 

~~~

 

On the first day of his college semester, as his Advanced Calculus teacher, Professor Graves, stood taking attendance at the head of the room, Credence could've sworn he saw a faint blush colour the professor's cheek--a subtle smirk as he called out his name: Barebone, before moving onto the next.  
Outside of that brief moment, the man had been poised, stern and stylish in his designer frames and dark jeans, looking the class over with a scrutinizing gaze.

Credence could also have sworn it was _him_. The one from The Tape.

All throughout the lesson, Credence had barely heard a word of what was said, too caught up in seeking a familiar note in the teacher’s voice, some final move that might confirm or deny his suspicion.  
He'd known, he'd _known_ that the professor was the same one he'd been pining after, and yet he'd struggled to accept the man in this new context, the nearly impossible chance of it actually being him. Just thinking of the coincidence alone... he _had_ to be wrong.

Years had passed since the making of that film--that young man he'd touched himself to so many times could be anywhere in the world, could be dead, even. Still, the things that had needed lining up seemed to line up nicely: the silver at Professor Grave's temples, the lush curve of his behind beneath the selvedge denim as he turned to the board, the puppy dog brows Credence could’ve spotted in a busy crowd. _It could be him_ , he'd thought, _it doesn't make any sense, but it_ could.

And then at the end of the day, alone in his dorm and nearly convinced he was only hopeful and mistaken, he'd settled in with his text book.

Scanning the brief introductory chapter on famous mathematicians throughout history, the name had struck him as though a frozen still from the porn itself had appeared suddenly on the page. Pierre de Fermat. Credence's skin had burned as he traced the name beneath the pads of his fingers.  
Peter Fermat. The boy in the film, that had been his name.

Over the years, Credence had _searched_ , hoping to find any further appearance, in porn or anyplace else, of the boy who had become something of an obsession. There was no other trace to be found, no further porn on the internet or any shops he'd nervously perused.  
He'd found plenty on the other man, River Gold, apparently the star of the show and quite famous for his ongoing series of watersport movies. Niche stuff, not the kind of thing someone like Professor Graves would likely want to be known for. The hope of finding the boy anywhere outside of that one film, let alone in reality, had come to seem as futile as wishing he'd simply climb straight out of the screen, warm and alive into Credence's waiting arms.

How would he feel, knowing that Credence, his _student_ , had seen him that way, many times over?

The Tape had been his constant companion for so long. Its discovery, for Credence, had been like an initiation, and as he grew into adulthood, it had been both his escape and his instructor. His teens had been punctuated by repeated viewings, a private ritual he’d quickly come to crave and rely on--one hand on himself and the other on the dial, ready to muffle each staccato shout of pleasure, poised for discovery.

By this point in his life, he'd watched The Tape so many times the tracking had begun to warp and warble, rainbow streaks of static sliding across the screen like pulled taffy.

Credence had nearly panicked the first time he'd seen that, the realisation that this was still his only copy rendering it more precious than gold. He'd viewed it only sparingly since then, instead simply fantasizing over the perfectly preserved memory of its contents--expanding on each sequence, placing himself in that bare little room with Peter until it was _his_ cock clenched in the tight heat of the boy's body, _his_ thumb pressing into the trembling mouth.

The day of that first class was one such rare occasion. Knowing then that Peter--no, _Percival_ , had found his way to him once again, this time in the flesh--he'd closed the book with a loud crack and reached beneath his mattress, feeling The Tape slide into his grasp as though it longed to be in his hands.

 

~~~

 

It had taken a week of classes before Credence sent the email.

At first, he'd tried to content himself with simply being in the man's real life presence, unable to let himself even consider seeking anything more. And at first, it had seemed that might almost be enough.

But it had felt strange to consider how one-sided things were, watching the mature, self-possessed professor pacing about the room--all the while Credence's mind drawing back to images of the man in his youth, kneeling on the warehouse floor, mouth open to receive. Each time he spoke, Credence heard the phantom moan of his voice, half seized up with the hair-trigger urge to mute the volume, as though the sound of Professor Graves simply reading numbers was erotic in itself. Something to be hoarded away and sheltered, a private pleasure he'd be punished for if ever caught enjoying.

To Professor Graves, Credence was simply just another student, and it had taken only a day before the guilt of his knowledge began to settle in. He'd felt he knew the man in such intimate detail, knew him _carnally_ in a way he'd never known someone in the flesh, and his status as a stranger seemed unfair. A sort of lie between them, where in truth, Credence wanted _nothing_ between them at all.

He'd tried to somehow convey his feeling, his _understanding_ through his eyes alone throughout each lesson, sending out a beacon of desire and openness with his very being. All the effort had seemed to achieve was a handful of perplexed looks, each one sending a thrill along his spine nonetheless, just to know that he'd simply _affected_ the man. Once, the professor had even stumbled on his words mid-lesson, pausing to glance towards Credence's desk with a trace of something helpless in his face that he'd burned to respond to then and there.

By the third class, Credence had known silence wouldn't do. The Tape had made its way to him, had _belonged_ to him and shaped his life in ways he could never explain, and now here was its greatest prize, the object of his unflagging admiration--come to him just as easily, as fatefully as an intended gift. It would be wrong to say and do nothing. To carry on the rest of his days regretting his inaction was unthinkable.

After the fourth class--having spent the full hour aching painfully beneath his desk, cataloguing every miniscule way the eager boy of his fantasies had grown into the strict, handsome man before him--Credence had composed his draft. He'd kept it brief, and as respectful as he possibly could, given the circumstances.

 

_Professor Graves,_

_I feel I must be honest with you. I've seen you before, in a film: River Gold vol. 5._  
_I don't think it's right that I should sit there in front of you every day, and all the while I have this secret from you. It feels unfair, and also a burden to me._  
_It's important to me that you know I hold no judgement regarding your involvement in such a film. Far from it. The discovery of that material was, and continues to be, a very positive experience for me._  
_I understand if all this makes you uncomfortable. If you'd like for me to change classes, it's still very early in the semester and I believe I can still manage that._

_Respectfully yours,  
Credence Barebone_

 

A fifth class came and went, and Credence had watched the professor all throughout with a renewed sense of longing and impending loss. As always, he'd drunk in the sight of him, a familiar routine refined over years of practice. There was an elegance to the professor's gestures, watching him teach, his finely sculpted hands moving through the air and describing equations with such eloquent depth Credence could nearly _see_ them. Professor Graves had a mind of such intelligence and complexity that Credence had never even considered in all his previous fantasies, though it made perfect sense. His shy sensitivity had always been apparent, shivering and moaning against the bare boards of that mysterious room, pleading with his every wordless gasp to be loved and held.

Sitting there on that Friday's lesson, Credence had brought himself nearly to tears, thinking of the endless fascination this man held for him--the subtle sense of humour that shone every now and then like a beam of light through the clouds, the frown of concentration, fingers pressed to pursed lips. Credence knew that he could, if given the chance, spend his whole life unfolding the hidden promise of this one man, and it broke his heart to fear that this may be the closest he would ever come to knowing him.

That evening, hunched in his dorm before the laptop's pale glow, Credence had retrieved the draft, sent it, and promptly wept.

The memory of the email had been Credence's first thought upon waking. The night had seemed to stretch on forever: cold half-sleep and fitful dreams of the porno's empty warehouse… searching for Professor Graves and finding only the echo of his name off the unvarnished walls. Sick with nervous anticipation, he'd reached for his laptop before anything else.

There was a response waiting in his inbox.

 

_Credence,_

_I have to thank you for your candor. My apologies if any of this has made attendance in my class uncomfortable for you. While it's not my personal request, I can understand if you choose to switch classes.  
I'd like to speak further about this matter with you in private, if you're comfortable with that. _

_Percival Graves_

 

Credence had stared, barely breathing, reading the brief message over and over again until each word and its meaning began to blur.  
He couldn't untangle its layers… _not my personal request_ ….

Did it mean Professor Graves would rather he stay? Or that he was ambivalent? He tried to imagine being alone with the man, _in private_ , and what he would say. Words would never be able to convey all that his teacher had meant to him--all his regret, all his yawning, screaming _hope_.

There'd been nothing left to do but answer. Within minutes, Professor Graves had sent him his home address.

 

~~~

 

And now, one o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, here he is. Outside of Professor Grave's door, trying simply to get his breathing under control.

His knuckles tremble against the wood, and he manages only a soft rattle before finally knocking. In his life so far, the man inside this house has been Peter, the boy, and Professor Graves, the teacher. There's no knowing who he will be after today, after Credence has set foot inside his _home_ and they've said who knows what they're going to say.

Professor Graves opens the door as quickly as though he were hovering, waiting, just beyond it. Their eyes lock for a long moment and the professor looks scared--stricken, even, before clearing his throat and pushing his hand abruptly through his undercut, effectively ruining its neatness.

“Credence,” he says by way of greeting.

“Hello, Professor Graves,” Credence manages back and then the teacher is ushering him one-handed into the condo with a nervous glance over his shoulder before shutting the door.

The place is nice, neat and understated in a cozy way: big, spacious kitchen with lots of chrome, several overburdened bookshelves lined up next to a wall-mounted big screen TV.  
Credence catches himself wondering if the teacher watches porn on it and immediately flushes, half angry with himself. Suddenly his fixation with Professor Graves and his former life seems sick to him, seeing the man's home. The half-finished cup of tea gone cold on a nearby side table strikes him as something more vulnerable and real than anything he's ever seen on that tape. He wants to cry.

The professor is speaking to him from the far end of the granite island at the centre of the kitchen.

“I'm going to have a drink, Credence, despite the early hour. I think maybe the occasion calls for it.” He tries his best to quirk a little smile at his own remark, but it falls flat beneath the fear still brightening his dark eyes. “Would you like one?”

Credence shakes his head. “Um, no. No, thank you. I don't really drink, actually.”

The answering smirk he receives is a touch more genuine here. “Not a drinker? That's unusual, at this school. Good for you.”

He's having a hard time simply getting past the surreal dissonance of being here--actually speaking with Professor Graves directly for the first time, smelling the trace of his cologne in the air and touching his pristine countertop with sweating palms. He's wanted to be inside of this man for as long as he's known it was something that could even be done. He's searched endlessly for even a scrap of some new sign of him--squinting over his laptop in the dark, scrolling past thumbnails on every dirty, secret corner of the internet in existence. And here he is simply… standing in the man's kitchen. After all this time. And Professor Graves is afraid of him.

“I… had a very religious upbringing.”

Credence blurts it out as though that lone sentence could ever explain it all, could even touch on the truth.

He watches Professor Graves set his whiskey glass down, flinching at the hard little _click_. Keeps watching as the man puts his hand to his own face, first touching his mouth and then rubbing at his eyes as though he wants to take something he's seen and pull it straight back out again.

“The things you must think of me,” he says. His words come out on a sigh. “I'm so sorry you had to see me that way.”

Credence steps forward, a third of the way down the island and that much closer, as though he could negate the words with his proximity.

“No. No, Professor Graves, it's not like that.”  
Oh god, his voice is trembling, why did he come here?

“I _like_ seeing you. I've never thought anything bad about you, I've never shown anyone or _told_ anyone. It's…” His words have come out in a rush to just as quickly run dry. “It's been… it means something, I don't know.”

Now his teacher is staring at him. Credence can't even begin to decipher the look, but he knows every curve of that face as if it were his own, can't believe he even entertained a second of doubt about who this person is. If anyone should know, if anyone on this earth should be able to recognise this man even better than the one who'd been thrusting into him on The Tape itself, it's Credence.  
Every hair, every shivering inhalation, every twitch of lean muscle. How many times have his eyes made love to him through the TV screen? How many? He'd know him in the depths of Hell, and he guesses one day he probably will.

“Credence. You…” A sigh, eyes turned up to the ceiling, searching. “You're an attractive young man, you don't need to be watching things like that.”

The words come out before he even hears them in his mind. “You think I'm attractive?”

The professor bites his lip and shakes his head ruefully, snorts a breath of air that might be a laugh. “Oh, Christ,” he whispers and turns away, reaching for the bottle beneath the cabinet behind him.

Credence just listens to him pour and takes the greatest risk of his life. The heart-pounding terror of pushing The Tape into the machine, crossing the threshold into this house--neither of them hold a candle to this, but they served their part in preparing him. He feels strangely calm.

His fingers work deftly, knowing their business, unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as quickly as the words are leaving his mouth. The professor's back is still turned.

“I think it's only fair, Professor Graves. You've been, you've been vulnerable to me, exposed, and I won't ever ask you how that came to pass because it's none of my business but I only think it's fair that you should see me, too.”

Graves raises his head, back stiff before he slowly turns around. Credence is all the way to where he stands now, only a foot of space between them, his shirt discarded on the granite island and the fastenings of his pants already undone. The professor's eyes widen and he starts to speak. “Credence, you don't….”

“Please, Professor Graves, you were my first...my first everything. I learned how to touch myself watching you.”

Here the professor's eyes flutter halfway shut, his breath stuttering.

“I learned how I want to touch someone, watching you. And I learned that it's _you_ I want to touch the most. I've always wanted that.”

Professor Graves swallows thickly, his eyes flicking up from Credence's naked, heaving chest to meet his gaze. There's something sharp there, something conflicted.

“You want to touch me the way _he_ did? The man in the film?”

Credence shakes his head, reaches out to curve his hand over a sharp cheekbone. His legs feel weak at the contact, his body fire and five-alarm fury. “I want to touch you like you _want_ to be touched. I want to touch you how you ask me to, if you'll ask me to.”

He leans in, breathes lightly over the professor's half-open mouth, nearly drunk now with what he knows is a moment he'll relive fervently again and again until he's mad with it.  
“Professor Graves, please… please teach me how to touch you…”

“Credence…” There's a warning note to his voice and the professor's hand is against his chest now, whether to push or pull--he barely cares as long as he can have this touch to cling to all the way to his deathbed--and then Professor Graves is leaning in, slotting his mouth against Credence's with a full-body shudder.

Credence _moans_ into the kiss, pulling the professor hard against himself, hands smoothing over the warm solidity of him through his shirt. He pushes his tongue into his mouth, tasting whiskey and _want_ and the sounds the man is making are nearly obscene: hungry, jolting, quivering little noises that make Credence feel nearly savage. He sounds as though he's already being fucked, as though he's been dying for it just as long and just as badly and Credence can barely believe he's _real_.

He pulls back slightly, cradling the professor's face between his hands, still licking and nipping at his lips, his jaw, his neck. “ _I want you_ ,” he groans, his voice throaty and deep in a pleading way he doesn't recognize. “I want you, I want you… I want you.”

Credence seals his mouth back over the professor's and the man gasps quickly out of it, something equally frantic rearing its way visibly up.

“Oh god, Credence, I've wanted you,” he pants out against his kiss-swollen lips as though he's confessing some unspeakable sin. “The way you've looked at me… I thought I was losing my mind.”

He threads his fingers through Credence's hair and Credence hisses with pleasure, his every nerve alight. He's never been this hard. He doesn't know his own self and yet _knows_ who he is now in a way he could've never fathomed. _This man_ , the truth-revealing _magic_ of him. The perfect math.

“Credence,” Graves is saying, “Credence, please fuck me.” And here he palms him through his still half-unzipped pants, squeezing and drawing a jagged yelp from his throat. “Credence, I don't care… please, take me to bed.”

Credence pushes the teacher against the counter and grinds against his thigh, bites at his collarbone through Ralph Lauren cotton.

“Where?” he asks, sucking a mark into the space below his ear.

 

Professor Graves's bedroom is cool and dark, his bed spacious and perfectly made. He's sprawled across it on his back, looking up at Credence in a sort of wonder as though he can't quite catch up to the moment he's in.

“Christ, boy, but you're beautiful, do you know that?” he asks, and for the first time Credence notices the hint of an Irish lilt, another hazy window into the man's mysterious past.

“I've been too busy looking at you to notice, Professor Graves,” he answers back, reaching down to unbutton the man's shirt. He wants to unwrap him like a gift, torn between a slow unfolding and simply ripping the clothes from him like something rabid. He feels wild, elated with the rush of finally having what he's wanted for so, so agonizingly long. This is happening.  
A disbelief still lingers, a desperate feeling that it won't quite be real until he's buried to the hilt. A pulse of pre-cum throbs out of him at the thought, and he quickens his work.

“Please, call me Percy,” the teacher says, his words cut off into a groan as Credence mouths over the shape of his cock before tugging his pants away in one fluid pull.

“I want to make you cum, Percy,” Credence tells him. He's been holding these thoughts for as long as he can remember and he'll say them now as plain as the boards in that sad little room they were birthed in. “I want to fill you and fuck you and I want to hear you say my name while I do it.”

Percy's head falls back to the mattress and he covers his face with one shaking hand, gripping the sheets in the other with his fist. Suddenly it occurs to Credence that despite Percy's questionable youth, it may be quite some time since someone's had him, and the thought adds a new layer to the feeling of possession coiling in his gut.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, standing over him at the foot of the bed. “You said you thought you were losing your mind. What were you thinking about me, when you lost it?”

Percy's voice comes up rough and breathy from beneath his hand. “Please... put your mouth on me.”

 

He's seen it so many times before and still Percy's cock makes him groan out loud to reveal it in the flesh. He stoops his head to press a kiss against its silky heat and it twitches up against his lips as though startled. Shivering at the delicious weight against his palm, he wraps one hand around the base before trailing a path of sloppy kisses up the shaft. His tongue slides through the slickness gathered around the head and he closes his eyes in rapture, the taste hitting his bloodstream like a drug.

Percy is whimpering--head lifted now to watch, his brows drawn down tight, nostrils flaring like a horse run ragged. Credence locks eyes and sinks his mouth down onto him slowly, watching every moment of sensation move across the teacher's face as he goes.

“Oh, oh fuck, Credence… oh _Christ_.”

The man sounds close to tears with it already and Credence hums around him, taking him deep and deciding then and there that he's going to _own_ the professor before the day is through.

His own erection aches and throbs and he presses it against the bed, holding the pressure firm, knowing that he won't make it if he doesn't find his way inside Percy _soon_.

He moves his ministrations further down, laving at the man's tight hole and relishing the way it flutters and clenches with every swift lick. Percy's calves are slung up over his bare shoulders and Credence pushes back on the tops of his thighs, exposing him even further, peppering butterfly kisses over the glistening rim before probing his tongue straight in.  
The professor lets out a strangled sound, arching up helplessly into Credence's grip as he eats him out deep, crooning little encouragements all the while.

“Mhmmm… look at you.... So pink and perfect. God, I've wanted to worship you like this…. oh, I want to make you feel _so_ good, so fucking good…”

Credence is in a state of elation he never thought possible--no prayer, no late night masturbatory fumblings in front of the television--nothing could ever compare to the raw beauty, the absolute power of having this man splayed out and panting for him.

First dipping his hand through the pool of clear slick gathered across Percy's trembling stomach, he slides a pair of fingers in place of his tongue, crooking and pumping, fingering him into wet and frantic urgency.

Percy wails.

“Oh, god… Credence, oh fuck! Credence, please fuck me...oh, you fucking beautiful boy…”

Credence draws back, adding a third finger and reaching down with his other hand to swirl and pinch around a pebbled nipple. Percy looks absolutely broken--lips flushed and bitten, colour high in his cheeks, blushing all the way down to his collarbone. Credence could die right now perfectly at peace. Nothing can ever take this away from him.

The professor watches him with eyes blown black and wide, and even knowing--having _seen_ him in a porn film, Credence thinks then that the man looks absolutely virginal. Like Credence himself invented this way of touching and the revelation has him struck dumb.

“You're so beautiful, Percy,” Credence tells him, tracing his thumb over the man's parted lips, feeling the sharp little gasp against his skin as he presses his working fingers in deeper. “I'll never get tired of looking at you.”

Gesturing limply towards the bedside drawer, the professor swallows hard before he can gulp out his half-formed sentence. “There's…. in there…”

A few more soft kisses against Percy's chest, a handful of strokes till he's open and ready, and Credence gets up and walks to the drawer. He pushes down the rest of his clothes to the floor, stepping out of them and hearing at the same time the soft little intake of breath from over on the bed. He smiles a bit, pleased and hopeful that the sight of his naked self might bring the professor a touch of that same anxious need that has him achingly hard now.

The cap on the bottle of lube makes a hollow little snap and there's something so definite and inevitable to the sound over the murmur of their hushed collective panting. The room itself is _breathing_ , alive with the anticipation of what's coming.

He fills his palm and annoints himself slowly, the same overhand stroke he learned from Percy, and he wonders if the man notices. Looking down at himself, he thinks _I'm going to put this in him_ and it's the stupidest and most beautifully erotic thing that's ever graced his mind.  
He glances back to the bed, at the professor--splayed out and half-ravaged--simply taking in the sight of him--and he realizes the man still has his socks on. Something about that clenches at his heart and his cock in the same single pulse.

Percy… Percy is honest-to-god reaching for him and he goes. The pull of the man is a fact of nature to Credence, more familiar than breathing--the physics working at the core of his whole universe.

Credence crawls up onto the bed between his legs, his socked feet, a force of tenderness moving through him with an intensity that's nearly immobilising. He doesn't care if it's perverse, an obsession he should've long grown out of--he loves this man. He _loves_ him.

For a long moment he just holds Percy, kissing him deep and searching, touching his face, running his hands over every bare curve and plane.

“The way you look at me, Credence…. god,” Percy whispers, and Credence licks the words from his mouth with an anguished groan.

Some crucial moment comes and passes, a silent understanding between them and Credence knows it's time. Pulling Percy's legs up around him, kissing his quivering thigh, the side of his knee--anywhere he can reach--he lines himself up and the movement has Percy nearly mindless with open need.

“Yes, yes, that's it… good boy, please…”

He's begging--Percy _wants_ him and it's so good, it's so right--Credence chokes out a sob as he pushes his way in, chasing away and banishing every moment of despair he's ever felt at fearing this could never be. There are tears on his face. Percy grips him tight and _keens_.

“I love you, Percy,” Credence says, looking down and seeing that lonely, heart-starved boy he knows so well. “I love you so much.”


End file.
